You Say You Want a Revolution
by MyRibbonsRed
Summary: Godric's volatile firstborn seeks vengeance upon those she feels responsible for his attack of conscience. Her estranged Norse sibling has the weapon she wants, but the cost may be high, and he risks falling back into her power. Eric, OC.
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer: I own none of the True Blood characters, and cannot be held responsible for their behavior. **_

_Synopsis: Enraged and grieving her maker's death, Godric's firstborn seeks answers from a vampiric sibling in Louisiana, trying to draw him into her centuries-old obsession and back into their chaotic and sexually-charged relationship. Things have never been exactly what you'd call quiet at Fangtasia, but all hell is about to break loose with the appearance of this unbalanced little minx. Set just after the end of season 3, in an alternate reality in which Sookie did not dip out to Fairyland._

_Note: This first section only features a glimpse of Sookie and Pam, but they and other TB characters will be prominent in upcoming chapters. Also this story will upgrade to an M rating as it progresses, I suspect. _

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><p>Greetings.<p>

If you're reading this, I must be dead. I refer to the True Death, of course; I have been dead, according to humans, for a long, long time. Long enough to regard an era before smog and filthy, polluted human blood as recent memory; long enough feel nostalgic about a time when a vampire was law unto herself, and the world her garden; long enough to loathe the oppression of the Authority, and yearn to see every last vampire who supports it turned into a bubbling puddle. Mainstreaming? For the longest time I thought it must be some sort of bad joke. I kept waiting for the night when the proponents would gather, collectively laugh at what seemed to me the absurd ruse of seeking equal rights, and begin a war. I thought-however foolishly-that when I saw Russell Edgington kill a human on live broadcast, that the moment had come. The joke was on me however, for I finally accepted the truth only afterward: that our race had truly had devolved and sunk to the shame of desiring _human_ rights.

If I weren't already cold as a corpse, it would give me chills.

Perhaps you find me somewhat uncivilized. It's so, I will happily admit: by your modern standards, I am barbaric. Perhaps it is my Roman blood which prevents me from finding subservience palatable. Perhaps it's simply the nature of a ferocious heart, which made me attractive to my maker to begin with, that night so long ago on the Via Appia when I promised him that if I must die I would take him with me.

I felt him burning. I was on the waterfront in Mumbai-the tourist district, looking for a meal-and the sun had only just set. I must have cried out when I felt his light dim and then disappear from my mind. My knees must have given way, as the next thing I knew I was kneeling there on the sidewalk gripping the sea wall and a frail Indian man had leapt from the driver's seat of a garish horse-drawn tourist carriage to put his arm around me. Did I snap his neck? Drain him? I cannot recall. The rest of the evening seemed only a blur as I wandered first through the crowds of tourists and then empty, muggy streets and tried to conceive of what could have had the power to destroy him. Later I heard from others that Godric had met the sun of his own accord, that he had been free of the fanatics who had held him. The latter I believed, for no power on Earth I knew of could have held my maker against his will. The former I could not accept. Whatever caused him to destroy himself, the Authority was to blame. I just didn't know how. I came to Louisiana seeking answers, and vengeance.

My true name I have not spoken for a millennia now. I introduce myself simply as Stella. My human memories have for the most part faded, but I still remember my father pointing out the constellations to me when I was a girl, and telling me the story of Callisto, and of Orion's death by scorpion bite, and so it seems as fitting a name as any. I am small, as humans go: just over five foot two and slim of frame. It has been an endless asset (and no small source of amusement) over the centuries that I am so consistently underestimated. My hair is long and brown, my features defined but fragile. I was a young woman when I was turned—newly married-and I tend to appear a human girl in need of saving. As I cannot bring myself to swallow the abomination of the Great Revelation, I have not yet quit the habit of makeup and mannerism to emphasize that illusion. But of course, others of my kind recognize me immediately. The intelligent ones then get out of my way. Those less endowed tend to band together in attempts to destroy me, if I stay anywhere too long or make too much a fuss: as you might imagine, someone of my age and strength is often considered a serious threat.

I frequently corroborate those considerations with satisfaction.

As I said, I came to Louisiana seeking answers, from Godric's only other progeny I knew still to exist, who I understood had assumed a position of some prominence. "Prominence" here having the meaning of "slave to the Authority".

These days, it is expected that vampires check in and declare their purpose with the monarch upon arrival in a new territory. Now, you know I'd stake myself before I'd step on toes or appear discourteous, but I prefer privacy. I'm sure you understand, in light of the aforementioned threats to my health. Besides, it's a protocol instituted by the Authority, and as you may not have yet gathered, I'd sooner see the Authority take a sunbath than submit to it.

So I was greeted with the surprise to which I have grown accustomed when I entered his bar _(really? Fangtasia, Eric?) _on a warm night in October. I found him absent- the oldest thing in sight was a three-hundred-ish Frenchman in black skulking in a corner with a young human in a dog collar; a glance told me that the human thought it was his lucky night. Who knows, perhaps he was right. I doubt it.

Before I had made it to the bar, I had gotten several looks and cursed myself for forgetting my perfume. Power does not exactly radiate from us, it is more of a smell - the stronger the smell, the older and stronger the vampire. I must have forgotten to apply my Samsara that evening, because I had attracted the attention of every undead on site, and it wasn't due to the slinky red dress or platform heels, which only brought me up to about eye level with girls in flats. I was swiftly aware of how vulnerable I was, with only one exit and my back exposed. Do not mistake me: I am as arrogant as the next immortal, but I know well that twelve mangy dogs can take down a lioness.

"Welcome to Fangtasia," the vampire behind the bar said with total insincerity. He was dressed punk, his hair spiked and eyes rimmed in black. He sounded like he was from northeast America somewhere. Philadelphia? D.C.?

"I'd like something tall, blonde, and Scandinavian. Please." I smiled. Charm is greatly underrated in the 21st century.

"True Blood only here." His lips curled into a snarl.

I blinked and crossed my arms on the bar. "Well that's a rather limited selection… I'm surprised you stay in business with such a small menu. Don't care for the stuff, myself. I find that it… sucks all the fun from the evening, don't you think?" I tilted my head and smiled. For a moment he stood mute, and I winked. Finally he must have decided I was not preparing to sever his head, and he grinned back at me, fangs out.

"As a matter of fact, yeah. Dunno how anyone gets that shit down. Tastes like a lab," he said in a voice low enough to exclude human ears. "We end up dumping almost all of it, of course, and just order more. Fuckin' waste, if you ask me. But…" He shrugged. "Orders from the Authority. Has to look like someone's drinking it, you know."

His smile melted and he drew back as I turned glacial.

"Yes, I know." What must I look like when my thoughts turn black? It must be frightening, because this was hardly the first time I had observed that reaction.

The door of the bar opened and lights from the parking lot framed the two figures entering. I closed my eyes and turned to catch a scent I had not smelled in a hundred years.

"Brother," I breathed. It was almost a whisper, but I knew he heard me. "How I have missed you." I opened my eyes and locked his gaze. The last time I had seen him, he had been wearing the woolen overcoat so popular in Victorian London with a collar almost high enough to reach his ears. He looked very different, in the simple modern fashions, but I noticed that he had not been cured of his obsession for black. Still playing the villain, I thought. Did he know himself so poorly, even now?

"You've come about Godric." It was not a question.

"I have."

"Eric, who are you talking to?" For the first time I noticed the pretty little blonde thing in a sundress by his side. So that's what the other smell was.

He addressed an exotic female at the door without taking his eyes from mine. "Felicia, tell Pam to take Miss Stackhouse home."

"Yes, sir." She picked up the house phone.

"Hey! Eric I thought you were going to help me—"

"Not tonight. Pam will take you home." He didn't move. Was he afraid of me, or afraid for the girl? Interesting.

"I heard that, thanks. Will you tell me what the hell is going on?"

"C'mon, sunshine," another female, this one a tall blonde in black sequins and presumably Pam, had appeared, and took the girl by the arm. The blood on her chin and hiked skirt testified to the cause for her absence.

"Clean yourself up," Eric said, still staring at me. "Those idiots with the cameras are still out there."

"You are a piece of work, Eric Northman, you know that?" The girl squealed, her bicep still in the grip of "Pam," who was now wiping her mouth with her free hand.

"Shall we?" He waved toward the door she had come through. I followed him into a cramped office, which also apparently served as the bar's liquor closet. A brunette in latex was sitting on the desk and wiping blood off her bustier.

"Get out." He circled around to the back of the desk as the girl hopped down, and ignored the look she shot him as she left. But instead of sitting himself, he leaned against the wall, within easy reach of the Viking sword hung there, I noted. How flattering.

"Stella." He smiled, but his voice betrayed tension. "I haven't seen you since the invention of the light bulb."

I smiled back, my back stiff. "It seems you've come up in the world, little brother." I gestured to the tiny office. "Not exactly Kalmar castle."

"Not all of us are blessed with your visionary ambition."

"Don't be absurd. Who gives a damn how you spend eternity-luxury only makes for laziness anyway." I looked away. "I meant your… distinguished position here. I know we've had our differences, Eric, but I never imagined that I would see you working for the Authority."

His voice was hard. "I am a Sheriff under a King, and no servant to the Authority."

"Really? Does your King not bow to them?" My voice was low but edged in steel. "What does that make you, I wonder? And did I not hear that you were groveling in front of that Flannigan bitch, requesting aid from the Authority? To kill someone who by all rights should have been a great ally to us? Someone who could have been the weapon we searched for, for so long?" I had not planned to lash out at him like this, but I couldn't stop. I knew he had been there, when Godric had died, and had not stopped him. I couldn't understand how he could have allowed it, or how I could ever forgive him for it. And I _was_ angry about Edgington – a lunatic, granted. But he had been so old, so strong. He could have been exactly what I'd been after for so long. But then, I had always been the one nursing the vicious grievance; Eric had been far less passionate on the subject.

Somewhere I had inadvertently struck a nerve- he seemed abruptly ready to explode. "You want Edginton?" He bellowed. "Fine! Go dig him up! I will tell you exactly where he is, and you can both go on your idiotic suicide mission!"

"Perhaps I will just kill you instead." I smiled. I was furious and grieving, and it was making me reckless. I could not remember the last time I had lost my temper like this, but it felt good. I suddenly felt more alive than I had in decades. "It would be just, as you stood by and allowed our maker to die."

Eric began to growl.

"Relax, little brother. I know you didn't kill him." I grinned. "And if I wanted you dead, you would be." His eyes narrowed.

"I have picked up a few tricks since I saw you last."

"Really?" I stepped forward and leaned over the desk, spreading my palms flat on the wood. "Show me." My nose crinkled and my chin came up as I smiled a challenge. I was no longer accustomed to emotion, and I realized that I was out of control, drunk on it. How delightful.

In an instant he was behind me and had swept the desk clear, smashing several bottles in the process, his body forcing mine low over the surface. One hand gripped the far side of the desk, the other applied enough pressure to my throat to choke me, had I had need for air. He pressed harder, and I could feel the rock of him against me. "The last time I saw you," he whispered, "I was watching you walk away as I lay in the street with a silver chain around my throat ten minutes before sunrise. Give me a reason to trust you, Stella."

A fraction of a second later he lay on his back on the desk, and I sat astride him. I had never surrendered to the modern trend of pantyhose, and my skirt rode up to expose the tops of my thigh-highs and black garters. "You're not still harboring old grudges, are you?" I rocked forward an inch, indicating my double meaning. His eyes closed for a brief moment and a soft sound escaped him as he gripped my thighs. I was perhaps the one pleasure Eric had ever been denied, and once upon a time his fury had thrilled me. When one's objects of desire are as easily acquired as vampires' are, utter unattainability can drive one to distraction. And having nearly nine hundred years on him, I would _always _be faster. But as I stared into his blue eyes and saw myself as I had been when he was young, the ice around my heart seemed to melt a fraction.

He must have seen it, too. In another moment he was sitting up, his arms wrapped around me in an unnervingly tender embrace as he pressed his cheek to mine, his hand cradling the back of my head. "Stella," he whispered. "I wanted you there-I couldn't stop him. Maybe he would have listened to you." The tenor of pain in his voice about cleft my heart, and the sensation of his arms around me brought an unwelcome flood of emotion and memories: the sweet abating of loneliness I had felt the first time I stood in the presence of both my maker and new brother; the joy of laughing and hunting in their company; the gratitude I had felt when Eric had saved my life and the swelling pride the night I returned the favor; worst of all, the secret and terrible fear that had kept me from ever bedding him, the insecurity I had never once let him see. I felt dizzy.

A second later I was on my feet again, facing the door. "I came about Godric," I said, struggling to regain control.

"So you said." When I turned he was sitting on the desk, almost exactly as the girl had been when we had come in. A lock of blonde hair had fallen forward into his face. It was shorter than I had ever seen it, and I noticed that it suited him. I had felt more in the last ten minutes than I had in the last ten years, and I needed to take a mental breath. I cast about for an inoffensive subject.

"Who was the delicious little donor, by the way?" I tried to sound lighthearted. I think I was unsuccessful.

His face clouded. "I don't keep track of Pam's toys."

"Not that one. The one who looked like she got lost on her way from the church picnic."

He folded his arms. "I thought you said you here because of Godric."

"I did. But that girl smelled of fairy, and I can't help but wonder if she tastes like one, too." I smiled sweetly.

"Later." Definitely defensive, I thought, and a flicker of jealousy surprised me. I straightened one of the overturned chairs and sat in it.

"As you like. Now please, tell me what happened to Godric."


	2. Chapter 2

The music in the bar had been off for some time when we finally fell quiet. We were both drained, the more so that neither of us had fed that evening. I had not seen Godric since I had attempted to murder Eric the century before, and only infrequently in the two centuries prior to that. Yet I could not fathom how my maker's understanding of the world and his place in it-or lack thereof, it seemed-could have changed so completely since I had known him. The Godric I remembered sucked the marrow from life, rollicked in our devilishness and thought of himself as all but God. Only in his darkest moments did he confess a conviction in our ultimate damnation. It wasn't that he lacked a conscience; far from it. He defined himself by his honor-though a thieves' honor, you may call it-and would have died without hesitation to save either of us. We would have done the same; we worshipped him. But this self-loathing vampire, this Godric of his final days, consumed with regret and the absurd idea that he could set to rights all his sins by his own death? I did not know him, and could not begin to guess at his origin.

I still sat in the chair I had turned upright, staring at a bottle of Southern Comfort on the shelf to my left. Our surroundings seemed oddly prosaic for such a terrible reunion. Eric also sat motionless, still on the desk, slouched forward with his forearms on his knees and his hands folded, staring at the floor. It was a familiar posture, and somehow comforting. Both our faces were encrusted with dried and flaking blood. Vampires don't become restless, and we can stand or sit like statues for hours. Neither of us had bothered to wipe away our scarlet tears as we spoke. I can only guess that we looked like the bleeding statues of saints that the fervently religious rave of.

"It's the Authority," I finally whispered.

"What?" His head came up. He had been far away.

"The Great Revelation," My voice was trembling. "Don't you see? All the bullshit they've been spewing for the last few years about equal rights, trying to convince the humans that we are like them, that we can live together in the open, that we have the same potential for goodness? Godric bought into the propaganda. That must be it."

Eric looked tired and incredulous. "He was too smart for that, Stella."

"What other explanation is there! You said yourself that he was trying to atone for his sins in giving himself over to those fanatics – he was thinking of himself as _human_, Eric, not as predator. Not as a _god_, with divine right to stalk and kill as he pleased."

He looked at me for a long moment. "Is that what you think of us, Stella?" His voice was too quiet; it should have alarmed me. "Is that how you think of yourself? As a god?"

There are good reasons that there are only a handful of vampires over a certain age wandering the world. We tend to be hunted by others who consider us a threat, as I have mentioned before. We burn in the sun far more easily than the young ones, and it takes only seconds of exposure to destroy us. Many of us do not survive the passing of a maker or child-the pain of being separated from one so beloved for so long is overwhelming, and often we choose the True Death alongside them, or soon thereafter. But another reason, one darker and more historically destructive, is madness. Sometimes it takes the form of a God-complex-which, quite frankly, is difficult to avoid developing when you are master of all things for countless human lifetimes. Vampires who develop these are put down like dogs by those around them, and understandably: they begin to kill indiscriminately and cease bothering to conceal themselves, which, before the Great Revelation, put us all in peril. Vlad the Impaler was one of these. More often it is what we call the Rage, triggered by some awesome grief. Sometimes vampires simply kill themselves when they lose their maker or their progeny, as I said, but less often, they fall into the Rage. The thirst for vengeance at any cost- rational, irrational, on scapegoat, whipping boy, and bystander-can engulf and smother logic in an inferno of fury and lead to terrible destruction, none so poignant as Russell Edgington's moment on live TV when he tore the spine from an anchor and denounced the AVL, VRA, and hence the Authority-all because Eric had murdered his lover. Had Eric not quickly explained why he did it, I am not sure I would not have attacked him; I felt a wretched anguish for Russell, as my own child of almost five hundred years had been crucified and left to the sunrise by the Authority a century and a half earlier. The death of a child is almost unendurable; Eric had feared me falling to the Rage when they killed Michael, and I think now he was right to worry: I would have been happy to die, as long as I could have taken the Authority and all they loved with me. It was the reason he had bound me, the night I had planned an all-out assault with several others. I had spent years planning the attack, and though he claimed he was only saving my life, all I saw was that he had robbed me of my vengeance. I thought a Viking would have understood, and told him as much. It was around that time that I had tried to murder him.

I repeated Eric's question in my head, searched for the right answer, discarded it. Finally I choked out a broken laugh.

"If we are gods, then we are the gods of my childhood: flawed, bloodthirsty, ruled by lust, made in the cold shadow of man's image. Not the perfect and merciful gods of this age. Perhaps Godric was right - perhaps we are only anachronistic bits of death, leftover from the adolescence of civilization. Perhaps we should all perish."

I stared blankly as he slid from the desk and knelt in front of me. He held my face in his hands. "You are tired, and mourning. We will eat and rest, and you will feel better when you wake."

"I don't want to rest, Eric. I want to end the Authority. I want revolution."

He looked at me unhappily. "Still that?"

"Of course, still that. You remember how it was before they massacred the Elders. We were free, then. We needed no law. We need no law now."

His expression hardened. "This is not about freedom for you, Stella. It is about Michael. And the Authority is stronger than it has ever been. It is suicide."

I stood up, and he mirrored me. "It's not just about Michael. It's about the friends we saw die when the Authority took power. Don't you still want justice for Athos and Connor and Marie? The Authority sits hidden and protected, threatening to silver us if we do not promise our obedience and fealty and profits, and makes one decision after another for us without our consent! And all the while, dissenters disappear. What is that if not tyranny? And now they try to convince us all-vampires and humans alike- that we are _equal_, that we can coexist, that we should deny our nature every night of eternity and drink bottled chemicals instead. They aim to create race of vampires who see themselves merely as UV-challenged humans, but whose preternatural predatory nature forces them to be oath-breakers-vampires who feel guilty doing exactly what we are hardwired to do! How fortunate for the Authority that the self-loathing are so easily ruled! Perhaps others as old as Godric will do the Authority a favor and meet the Sun, and make the job of controlling the rest of us that much easier!"

He just stared at me for a moment. Then he shook his head. "No. Even if you are right, it's still suicide."

"I have spies on the inside, Eric." Why was it so important that he believe me, after all that time? I rushed on, still high on the rush of emotions, heedless of the risk of saying so much. "I have the location of the compound. I have the goddamn blueprints_._I am so close. It's going to happen. Even when Godric died, I was in India preparing for this, collecting the equipment we need. I am almost ready to take them all down."

To my great surprise, he looked impressed.

There was a knock on the door. "What."

The door swung open and the leggy blonde (Pam?) stepped into the doorway.

"They're ready with the receipts if you want to check them." She didn't look at me. Good.

"I'll be right there."

She disappeared and the door swung shut.

"Tell me about it tomorrow night," he said, and turned to walk out. I grabbed his arm before he left. He frowned at my hand, and looked down at me.

"I am not asking you to join us, Eric, but I have already told you more than I should have, and I am asking you to keep silent. I may ask for your help soon. Can I trust you?" I pleaded silently, having to look almost straight up to meet his eyes, and I saw for the first time that he felt guilty about binding me to keep me away from the attack and safe, so long ago. He nodded, I released his arm, and he left.

I stared around at the empty office, wondering if our long history and common love for Godric was enough to seal a trust between us, or if he would betray me, again. I thought over our conversation, and then my heart leapt and I cursed myself for letting my rage make me deaf. I had totally missed the meaning of something he'd said earlier.

Russell Edgington was _alive._


End file.
